The Choice of a Hooded Uniform
by Will Peterson
Summary: During a long and restless late night, Allen confesses to Lenalee how much he dislikes the curse marks that brand his hair and skin.


_In volume 4 of the D. Gray-Man manga, a note from Hoshino mentions that the members of the Black Order have customized uniforms, and that Allen asked to have a hood on his uniform because he wanted to hide his white hair. From there, I got the idea for this little story._

_As always, thank you for reading._

**The Choice of a Hooded Uniform**

Allen Walker tries to find peace in the sound of the train, the way it _thump-thump-thumps_ as it stumbles mechanically over the tracks. He tries to perceive it as a song that could lull him to sleep. Honestly, though, the so-called rhythm is just noise to him, and he can't put aside his irritation with it.

It's the dead of night, but he's not drowsy in the least. He's only bored – and incredibly so. He has no idea how long he's been sitting here, waiting for sleep. Not for the first time, he's tempted to give up and just allow himself to be awake. That would be more comfortable than sitting still, keeping his eyelids closed despite the active eyes that flitted underneath them.

But what if he ends up staying awake all night and then is sluggish during the day? He can't have that. He and a few other members of the Black Order are en route to their latest mission, which will begin full-force once they reach their destination at sunrise. There won't be many chances to rest after that. So he keeps his eyes shut and keeps trying to sleep.

After what seems like forever, his mind is starting to fall quiet. But just when he thinks the dream world is coming within reach, the train hits a snag in its path. It jumps like a scared rabbit, rocking Allen in his seat. Though the jolt lasts only an instant, it makes him mutter, "Damn it."

To his surprise, he hears a soft voice, just audible over the racket of the train. "Allen?"

He opens his eyes. Lenalee, who sits across from him, has her eyes open too. The full moon is beaming in through the window beside them, letting him see her somewhat clearly in the pale light.

"I didn't know you were awake," she says.

He speaks at the same low volume as her. "You didn't notice me squirming around in my seat?"

"I figured you're just a restless sleeper. We have a lot of those in the Order. Something about this organization attracts the sleep walkers and sleep talkers."

"Not you, apparently. I couldn't tell you were awake. You haven't made a sound."

"I've spent the night staring out this window," she says, making a small gesture toward it.

He glances out the window and is surprised to see snow falling. Perhaps because his uniform includes a long coat, he hadn't noticed a significant drop in temperature. The cold air has caused a silvery mist to glaze the sky. Lit against this glimmering backdrop, the moon and stars appear brighter than ever.

He asks Lenalee, "Is the weather going to slow this train?"

"I doubt it. It's only a light snow. If you look, you can see it's not sticking. The flakes melt almost as soon as they hit the ground."

Her voice, Allen realizes, is not just quiet. It's also dreamy. Her eyes are so distant, they've become a pair of deep dark pools, but with white spots cast on their surface by the light outside. He's never known anyone to be so entranced by snow.

"Can I tell you a story?" Lenalee asks suddenly.

"Sure, go ahead."

"Okay, it isn't really a story. It's a tidbit from my childhood. I was just a little kid when I was recruited by the Order. I don't remember much of my life before that, but one thing I do know is that it snowed in my hometown every winter, without fail. My brother and I used to make crowds of snowmen and imagine that they were new friends who'd keep us company. Seeing the snow now reminds me of that."

Watching the landscape roll with the train, Allen tries to call upon his own memories of snow. He regrets it a moment later, because unlike Lenalee, he doesn't think of snowmen. He thinks of his childhood self, disconsolate and alone, spending hours sitting in front of a grave. Making a doomed wish. Feeling a leap of joy upon seeing Mana again, cut short in seconds when the angry Akuma's curse bloomed over his hair and skin, marking him forever.

The snow fell endlessly on that day.

"You know," Allen finds himself saying, "snowmen are kind of over-romanticized, aren't they? They show up in a lot of stories, but nobody mentions how difficult it is to actually make them. Snowballs get heavy so quickly, it's a pain to roll them on the ground, and even more of a pain to stack them later. And they don't stack well, either. They fall off each other, which really makes it troublesome to create your standard three-tier snowman. Any why are the snowballs in pictures always drawn perfectly round, anyway? It's not easy to make them that round."

"Yeah," she says slowly, "I know. I've been there." She sounds mystified, as if she can't believe he just bothered to tell her all that.

He flushes and turns his head down in a futile effort to hide it. "Sorry."

"What for? You didn't insult me. For the record, though, I liked making snowmen even if it was a pain sometimes. I liked seeing their smiles at the end."

Their talk ends abruptly after that. For the next minute, the night is ruled by the noise of the train, until it's interrupted again by a short giggle from Lenalee.

It makes Allen turn his head back up. "What?"

"Your hair is practically glowing in the moonlight. It looks like the snow."

"Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you. I'm just laughing because I'm happy. It's nice being here with you. Besides, I like the snow, so it should be a compliment if I compare your hair to it."

"Thank you," he says, but his voice comes out stiff because he isn't really flattered by her praise. Instead, he feels so uncomfortable, he's tempted to pull the hood of his coat over his head.

Even though he stops his hands from reaching up, his reaction doesn't escape her notice. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing."

"Don't say it's nothing." She's remarkably stern. "Tell me."

"Well . . . I'd rather not have heard that comparison. I guess this is immature of me, but I don't like being reminded of the color of my hair. I don't like that aspect of it. I don't like my hair in general, actually."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

"There must be a reason. Do you think it makes you look old? Lavi mentioned that he mistook you for an old man when he first saw you."

"Yes, I know. He told me that upfront."

"So is that the reason?"

"No. Well, the old man resemblance isn't pleasant either, but that's not the main thing. What I really dislike is how attention-grabbing it is."

She takes a while to consider this, regarding his face with those large dark eyes of hers, and seeming unsure whether to believe him. Then, delicately, she comments, "Your arm and the scar on your face aren't exactly inconspicuous either."

"I don't like those either. I don't like any of the signs that mark me as a cursed one."

As soon as the words leave his lips, he wishes he could take them back. These waters are far too personal to wade into. Lenalee, however, doesn't seem startled or disturbed by how their conversation has turned. Her hands fold together in her lap and her gaze stays on him. She thinks he's only touched the surface of this subject, and that he's planning to dive further in. He ought to tell her that she's mistaken and he has nothing more to add. But something about the way she waits, still and patient, makes him want to say more than he needs to.

"It's not . . ." He stops, but then decides to go on. "It's not about vanity. It's not even the curse itself that bothers me. I wouldn't mind having white hair or a giant scar slashed over my eye if it weren't for the wretched memories that come with them. It's hard for me to look at them only because of what they remind me of. It's hard for other people to look at them too, although for different reasons. I guess the bottom line is that I dislike how nobody has an easy time looking at them."

She's silent for a while afterwards. When she speaks again, it's apparent that every word was chosen with great care. "You don't have to see them that way. They don't have to be symbols of pain. They can be symbols of triumph, and of everything you've managed to overcome in your life. You may carry a curse, but you're still alive and you're doing well. You've had a long, hard journey to this day, but you're still here."

He responds with a silence that stretches much longer than hers did. It worries her. "Did I offend you?" she asks eventually.

"No. I like what you said. It's not easy to put a positive spin on a curse." He almost adds that she made a good effort, but stops himself. It would sound condescending. Instead he says, "You're a lot nicer than most people are about it."

"It's stupid," she mutters, "that some people treat you badly because of the way you look. I, for one, got used to it quickly. In fact I have trouble imagining you with any other appearance. Can I ask what color your hair was before?"

"It was red."

"Red? I can't picture it. It doesn't suit you."

"You only say that because you never saw me before. Apparently it did suit me, considering that people nicknamed me for it. I was called nothing but Red for much of my life, until I got my proper name." He pauses for a bit. "To tell the truth, I don't miss that nickname."

At that, her lips curve into a smile. It's only a small one, but it lights up her face. Allen wonders if she can tell that he is momentarily dazzled.

He's hit with the impulse to tell her how pretty she is. It seems like a fair response, since she complimented his hair earlier. But when he opens his mouth to speak, his words are killed instantly by an image that flashes through his mind: that of Komui looming nearby with a murderous glare and a massive drill poised readily in his hands. The thought chills Allen, though he isn't sure why it would. He doesn't have the kind of intentions toward Lenalee that her brother would be wary of. Probably.

Lenalee leans back in her seat, her smile fading with a soft yawn. "I think I'm finally going to sleep now. Shall I see you again in the morning?"

"Yeah." That's all he can come up with. How bizarre it is, that the river of speech that flowed in abundance moments ago has now frozen within him.

Despite what she just declared, she seems hesitant to sleep. Her eyes flit between the window and him, as if she can sense the words struggling within him and is repeatedly prompting him to get them out. However, when he remains silent, she apparently gives up on him and settles down.

He spends a solid minute staring at her closed eyes before slowly shutting his own. He still has things to say to her, but since he can't find the words, he'll have to let it go for now. As he just said, he will see her again in the morning. He doesn't know if he'll sleep at all between now and then, as the train's cacophony continues the same as before. But no matter what happens, there is tomorrow.

There is always tomorrow.


End file.
